Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (26 page)

And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been...

But these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not been forgotten...

The people will tell of their wisdom, and the congregation will show forth their praise.

Ecclesiasticus, Chapter 44

O
NE
golden September evening, Dolly Clare and her friend Emily Davis set out on a walk at the edge of Hundred Acre Field, which lay behind the hawthorn hedge of their cottage home.

It was a leisurely progress; more of a potter than a true walk. There were frequent stops to admire the scarlet rose-hips in the hedge, or to pick a spray of late honeysuckle, or simply to stand, eyes shaded against the declining sun's dazzle, to gaze across the great field to the hazy blue of the downs beyond.

But then both ladies were in their eighties, slight and silver-haired, and the track was rough going even for the young and sure-footed.

Besides, why hurry? Their time, after years of teaching in the village schools near Caxley, was their own, and had been ever since retirement some twenty years earlier. Their days were as serene and cloudless as the evening air which they were now enjoying. The clock, once their stern task-master, had no power over them now.

The two had met at Beech Green village school when Emily Davis was seven, and Dolly Clare, then a timid newcomer, was six years old.

'You can sit by Emily,' the teacher had said to the bewildered Dolly. 'Emily Davis will look after you.'

The dark little girl had shifted along the desk seat obligingly, and given Dolly a wide smile, made more endearing by the gap left by the loss of her two front teeth.

From that moment they had been friends, and Dolly grew to love Emily even more deeply than she did her own older sister Ada.

The little house which Emily shared with her six brothers and sisters became a second home to young Dolly. Somehow, there was always room for one more child to tumble about in the crowded living room at the Davis' cottage.

The two little girls had shared their schooling at Beech Green School and later had travelled almost three miles together each morning to attend Fairacre School in the next village.

They knew every foot of the road intimately. They knew where a robin had his nest, where white violets were hidden, where there were blackberries to quench a child's thirst and the first primroses to carry proudly home. Their love of nature's treasures was doubly deep because it was shared. It was to be a never-failing source of happiness to them throughout their lives.

They both became pupil teachers, attending evening classes at Caxley, the local market town, and trying out their skills with the younger children at Fairacre.

Their ways later divided, but were never far apart, and weekly letters held the bond between the two friends. The Great War of 1914-1918 brought tragedy to them both. Dolly Clare's fiance, Arnold Fletcher, was killed at Ypres, and Emily had, perhaps, an even harder blow to bear. Edgar, whom she loved dearly, lay ill in a war-time hospital for many months. Week after week, Emily made the difficult journey to see him, sustained by the hope of his progress to health and their future happiness.

It was a bitter day for Emily when she received a letter from him confessing that he had fallen in love with his nurse, and all was over.

Later, he brought his wife to live near Fairacre, and it was Emily's painful lot to witness the progress of the marriage.

She was careful to keep out of the way of Edgar and his family, but she heard from many neighbours that the marriage was an unhappy one. The nurse had proved a nagger, and Edgar, once so gay, had become sullen with the years. The knowledge distressed Emily, but she said nothing.

The two friends never married. There were very few eligible men left in their generation, and they filled their days busily with work for other people's children. When the time came to retire, Dolly Clare left Fairacre School, and continued to live in the same little cottage, thatched by her father Francis Clare, at the foot of the downs.

A few years later, Emily came to join her, and a period of perfect companionship began for the old friends. Their ways fell together as sweetly as the two halves of an apple, and every day held simple joys.

This evening walk was one of them. They had walked this track watching the corn sprout, grow, turn from green to gold, and had listened to the clamour of the combine harvester as it gathered the grain. The baler had been at work during the past few days, and neatly-stacked piles, seven bales to each, stood among the glistening stubble awaiting collection.

Overhead the rooks flapped slowly homeward uttering their raucous cries, and, in the distance, pin-points of flame on the hill side showed where a farmer was burning his stubble, with thoughts of ploughing to come already in his mind.

The pair walked to the oak tree which stood in the hedge. Soon the acorns would be ripe enough to fall.

'We shall soon see the pheasants gathering round here,' observed Dolly.

'I've always loved the autumn,' said Emily. They stood in the oak tree's shade, gazing up into its gnarled branches.

Emily shivered, and Dolly noticed it.

'It's chilly here,' she said. 'Let's go home. There begins to get a nip in the air when the sun goes down.'

They turned to face the silvered thatch above the hawthorn hedge and, like the rooks above them, made their way home.

The evening was spent sitting one each side of the fireplace. Dolly had put a match to the paper and sticks which always stood ready in the hearth, and a small fire of logs now crackled cheerfully.

'It seems extravagant,' said Emily, lowering her knitting and gazing at the flames. 'And only September! But what a joy a fire is, Dolly, isn't it? Thank goodness, we've still the strength to bring in a bit of firing.'

They listened to a little music on their ancient radio set, knitting the while, and basking in the warmth from the fire.

At eight o'clock Dolly fetched supper on a tray for them both. Thin brown bread and butter, a little cottage cheese, and two bowls of blackberries, dappled with the cream from the top of the milk, made their meal, with a glass of warm milk apiece to wash it down.

'We're like the good rabbits, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail,' commented Emily, laughing, 'with our "bread and milk and blackberries for supper".'

'I wonder how many hundreds of times we've read that,' said Dolly.

'Recited it,' corrected Emily. 'We certainly never needed to look at the pages.'

They fell to reminiscing, as they did so often, while the meal was in progress. Their memories were prodigious, and their enjoyment of the follies and foibles of their neighbours, past and present, was as keen as ever.

The meal over, they washed up together in the little kitchen. Emily gave a great yawn.

'I can't think why I'm so sleepy tonight. I feel just as I did after a ten-mile walk as a girl. A lovely feeling really—but just dog-tired.'

'Go up to bed early,' urged Dolly. 'Shall I help you upstairs?'

'No, no!' cried Emily robustly. 'There's nothing wrong with me. But I think I will go up, as you say.'

She took her book and made her way up the short staircase. Dolly, below, heard the creaking of the old floorboards as she made ready for bed, and the gentle squeak of the springs as Emily settled herself.

Dolly knitted for a little longer. The logs were almost burned through, black and zebra-striped with silvery ash. The cat had taken advantage of Emily's absence to establish itself in her chair. There, curled up luxuriously, it would stay until morning, unless the mysterious noises of the night tempted it through the window left ajar for its convenience.

The sky was clear when Miss Clare made her way to bed at ten o'clock. A great full moon silvered the sleeping world. From her bedroom window Dolly noted the luminous beauty of the field of stubble, beside which she had walked with Emily a few hours earlier. She was reminded of Samuel Palmer's pictures of the countryside. He had caught exactly that eerie moonlight transfiguring an everyday world.

In the distance a sheep coughed, rasping and rhythmic, like an asthmatic old man.

It was very still. The perfume of night-scented stock came from the garden bed beneath the window. Emily, who loved the scent, had planted the seeds that spring.

Reminded of her by the fragrance of the flowers, Dolly went softly across the landing.

Emily had put out her light, but lay awake, gazing at the bands of moonlight across the rafters.

'All right, my dear?' asked Dolly gently.

'Perfectly,' answered Emily. 'What a heavenly night!'

'Can I bring you anything?'

'Nothing, dear, thank you. I've all I want.'

'Then sleep well,' said Dolly.

She kissed her friend's forehead briefly, and closing the door behind her made her way to her own room.

She was asleep within twenty minutes, but Emily, next door, was not. Tired though she was, sleep seemed to evade her.

She plumped up her pillows and sat up in bed. Now she could see the tops of the trees in the garden, the cornfield and the distant downs. Somewhere at hand a night bird rustled among leaves, and in the thatch above her there was a tiny scratching noise. No doubt a mouse was out upon its foragings.

The peace of the countryside enveloped her. Had it ever been so beautiful? Lit by the full moon, scented with stocks, the familiar view was enhanced by the mystery of night.

Emily sat there entranced for almost an hour. She had known that scene for eighty years, and still it had power to move and delight her, to present a different aspect with every changing season, and with every changing hour.

At last, with a sigh of pleasure, she sank back upon her pillows and closed her eyes.

M
ISS
Clare woke early. The hands of the china clock pointed to six o'clock, as she sat up in bed to survey the day.

The sun was slowly dispersing the light mist which veiled the distant downs. The beech hedge was draped with filmy cobwebs, and the grass was grey with a heavy autumn dew.

'There should be mushrooms about,' said Miss Clare aloud.

The shadow of the cottage, elongated absurdly, stretched across the cornfield. The chimneys were just like rabbits' ears, thought Dolly Clare, with amusement.

The croaking cry of a pheasant came from the distance. No doubt he was searching for a few early acorns from the oak tree. There had been another picking of ripe blackberries close to the tree, Dolly remembered. She would take her basket there later in the morning when the sun had dried the long grass a little. Emily enjoyed a dish of blackberry and apple meringue, and there were plenty of apples and eggs in the larder.

She wondered if Emily were awake, but decided not to disturb her so early. Countrywomen both, they were usually astir by seven o'clock, but Emily had seemed so tired, it would be a good thing if she slept on, thought Dolly.

She rose, and dressed as quietly as possible, but no matter how lightly she trod, the ancient floor boards creaked and squeaked, and the staircase was equally noisy as she crept downstairs.

She opened the windows and doors, letting in the fresh morning air scented still with stocks and damp grass. It was Dolly's favourite time of day, when the world was cool and quiet, and the day was full of hope.

She fed the purring cat which rubbed about her legs, and then set the breakfast table. Next she filled the kettle and switched it on. To have an electric kettle which boiled within five minutes, was still a wonder to Dolly Clare, who well remembered the lengthy process of lighting the kitchen fire and waiting for the black iron kettle to boil above it.

She thought she heard a sound above. Emily might be stirring. She made the tea, and found an unusually pretty porcelain cup, given long ago to her mother, for Emily's tea.

The tea was just as Emily liked it, not too strong and with only a little milk. The steaming fragrance whetted Dolly's own appetite as she bore it upstairs.